


a ballad or two

by liginamite



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blood, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Established Relationship, Feelings, Fluff, Gen, Kink Meme, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Post-Quest, Romance, Shapeshifting, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3375422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liginamite/pseuds/liginamite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of kink meme fills, ranging from gentle and loving, to pure smut, to tragedy and sorrow.</p><p>1. Dwalin/Ori, Dwalin is a romantic, G<br/>2. Bofur/Nori, Nori develops feelings for Bofur, NC-17<br/>3. Bard + Beorn, Bard is a skinchanger and Beorn teaches him, T</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter list

**Author's Note:**

> in an attempt to reignite the old writing flames i had once, i'm going to attempt to fill as many kink meme prompts as possible. we'll see how far i can get before i throw my hands up. 
> 
> first chapter will be an updated list of fills so i don't lose track!

1\. Chapter List  
2\. Dwalin/Ori, Dwalin is romantic ; [prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=21704171#t21704171)  
3\. Bofur/Nori, Nori develops feelings for Bofur ; [prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8478.html?thread=18466078#t18466078)   
4\. Bard + Beorn, Bard is a skinchanger and Beorn teaches him ; [prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25503234#t25503234)


	2. galaxies (dwalin/ori, romance)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written for the [prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=21704171#t21704171): 
> 
> _A lot of fic I have read portray Dwalin as a really gruff and hard person but Id love to read where he is the opposite. He is a dwarf and he loves fiercely, he holds his love close at night and whispers poetry into their skin._
> 
> _"You have galaxies hidden between your bones and I will love you until the stars burn out"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i most certainly did not listen to 'for the dancing and the dreaming' from httyd2 for the majority of the time i spent writing this nooo i did not.

Ori has always wondered at how tiny his hands look when clasped between Dwalin’s. He has scholar’s hands, dainty little things that are hardly made for wielding weapons, though wield them they have. Dwalin often considers them thoughtfully, rippling their fingers together until Ori’s is pressed flat against his palm. It looks like a child’s hand when pressed to Dwalin’s; the tips of his fingers barely reach the last crease of Dwalin’s knuckle. But he feels safe like that, the world narrowed down to those ten points of contact.

His hands seem to be of an interest to Dwalin; he watches silently whenever Ori sketches in their quarters, huffing with no small amount of admiration when Ori happily presents his newest project. Mostly they are carefully and masterfully drawn portraits of the company, or of family that followed when they reclaimed Erebor. Sometimes they’re endless sketches of the vast corridors beneath them, or the thick silhouettes of Dale on the horizon. Once or twice, a sketch of the she-elf Kili spends all his time with, or Bard, the quiet, gentle king that visits the mountain sometimes to speak with Thorin, the tall Elvenking at his side. Rarely does Ori draw the latter, though. 

“Aren’t you extraordinary, with your hands,” Dwalin tells him one night. Ori is tucked against his side, hair unbraided, in nothing but his underthings, enjoying the feel of Dwalin’s hands massaging the constant sting of rewriting some of the more damaged books in the library. 

Humming curiously, Ori shifts a little, tilting his head up to gaze at Dwalin as he asks, “what do you mean?” 

“Dwarven hands were meant to create,” Dwalin murmurs, and runs a calloused finger across the line that travels across Ori’s palm. It feels like warm leather. “As Mahal did.” 

Ori feels color rising in his cheeks. “I’m not the Maker.” 

“No, but you create as he did,” Dwalin continues, and digs his thumbs into one of the cramps in Ori’s palm. He hisses, not in pain, and tries to reposition himself so that his arm doesn’t grow tired. Dwalin pays singular attention to his hands, his voice a low rumble against Ori’s side. “I believe we forgot what was intended for us when we were first made, aye? Fell into fighting and wars, but forgot our true craft along the way.” The chuckle is low, and Ori’s blush deepens as Dwalin moves his hand to his lips, kissing each individual fingertip as he speaks. “But you. With your writing, and your drawing. Crafting something from nothing.” Ori knows his face is burning. “Truly extraordinary.”

“...oh, hush, you silly old dwarf,” Ori mutters after a moment, though he grins into his chest. He’s horribly embarrassed, but it’s the sort of embarrassed that has his stomach twisting pleasantly with the praise. Only his brothers have ever really applauded his talents, but with Dwalin, it’s different. A seasoned old warrior, with nearly two centuries beneath his belt, speaking of Ori as if he himself were the Arkenstone… unimaginable. 

And yet here he is.

There’s a low rumble in Dwalin’s chest that Ori belatedly realizes is a chuckle before the larger dwarf rolls, looming over him with something almost gentle in his eyes. Ori feels breathless, pinned to their bed but with every indication that he could leave if he wanted to. 

Slowly Dwalin twines their fingers together, looking Ori in the eye all the while. He’s very big, very imposing, but not for one second does Ori ever feel unsafe; rather it’s like a warmth that spreads from the center of his chest outwards. For a moment they just lay there like that, looking into each other’s eyes, the gentle rise and fall of their chests moving in tandem. 

“You are beautiful,” Dwalin finally says, in his gruff voice and again Ori’s breath catches. The look in Dwalin’s eyes is intense, sincere, the glimmer in his eyes from the candles flickering like stars. Ori’s transfixed, watching the movement with rapt attention, listening to every word. “Do I tell you enough?”

Ori swallows. “I… I could stand to hear it more, maybe.”

Again, the gentle rumble of Dwalin’s laughter vibrates through his chest, and Ori can’t help but join in. Dwalin touches his forehead down against Ori’s, eyes closing as they just bask in each other’s presence. It’s something Ori’s wanted his entire life, this warm love that encompasses everything. The love of his brothers, while forever doting and nurturing, can never quite measure up to how it feels to just lay on the bed and let Dwalin’s warm, heavy weight keep him safe. 

“I would tell you every day, for the rest of your life,” Dwalin continues, his lips moving up to press another kiss against Ori’s forehead. Once upon a time, Ori would have been unsure of what to do with his hands, wouldn’t have known how to handle such a proud, rough, scarred warrior treating him like a jewel. Now he spreads his hands against the fur of Dwalin’s chest, feels his heartbeat beneath his palms. It skitters, just once, when Ori touches, and he smiles. 

Dwalin lets his weight down onto his knees, their lower bodies pressed together, and covers one of Ori’s hands with his own. Presses it harder, so that the gentle thumping of his heart pulses against Ori’s skin like a drumbeat. He counts each one, and a smile spread across his lips despite himself. 

“It beats for you.” 

Ori’s eyes flick up, startled, but the sincerity in Dwalin’s eyes bodes no comment, and he continues. 

“Had I known when we began the quest, that your love would be my treasure…” Again, Dwalin threads their fingers together, over his heart, and slowly lowers them so that instead Ori’s hand is flat over the beat of his instead. “That I would be given _this_ … that you would allow me the privilege…” His kisses trail down, slowly, until Ori feels like he can’t breathe for want of Dwalin’s words pressed into the side of his mouth, his beard tickling against Ori’s skin. “All the gold of Erebor, the comforts of home, do not compare to these simple pleasures, _ûgmâl_.” 

Ori genuinely doesn’t know what to say. Dwalin’s other arm touches down and pushes between Ori’s back and the bed, holding him close. There’s not a bit of them somewhere that’s not touching somewhere, all warmth and home and love that overwhelms him. Ori knows the fierce love of a dwarf, for he feels it too, but he had never expected it to be given to him in turn. 

If he has nothing to say, he knows, it’s because there’s nothing that can be said to describe how he feels now, surrounded by so much love that he doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“Have you ever looked at the stars?” Ori finally asks, his voice wavering. Dwalin hums his affirmation, now pressing gentle, prickly kisses down the side of Ori’s face. “There was a book, in the library, that talked about the stars. The elves--” Here Dwalin pauses, and growls a little in irritation at the mere mention, but Ori just chuffs him lightly against his temple. “They say that all the stars gather together in groups, and they called them _galaxies_. They’re said to be the most beautiful sight of all.”

“I would contest that,” Dwalin says sneakily, chest rumbling again. Ori smacks his arm, mostly playful. Even as he laughs Dwalin moves downward, pressing little pecks against the fuzz of Ori’s chin, down to the slope of his neck. Ori tilts his head a little, gives him better access.

“Why a sudden lesson in leaf-eater words?” Dwalin asks against the curve of his throat. Their entwined hands break apart so that Dwalin may trail his fingers through Ori’s unbound hair, work them down again so that they tickle his ribs and make Ori gasp and giggle.

“I want to show them to you,” Ori manages. “At night, at the top of the mountain. They’re so beautiful, Dwalin.” He finds himself trailing his own fingers across the dark blue ink that decorates Dwalin’s skull. “They’re vast and they’re so beautiful and… and they remind me of you,” he adds shyly, prompting Dwalin to crook an eyebrow at him. “They… they tell stories, I think. And they’re made of power and, and when I look at them, they remind me of… of jewels, I suppose. The kinds you would find in the mines here. It felt almost like home, on the quest, like this home.” Dwalin pulls away a little to stare at him, wonder writ in his expression. 

“Like you did,” Ori finishes quietly. “You feel like home.” 

Dwalin’s hands cup his face, suddenly, and there is a fierce, unfathomable love that burns in his eyes. He kisses Ori, then, tilts his head upwards to better slot their mouths together. Ori’s eyes flicker closed, a tiny, embarrassed moan pulled out of him that arches his back against Dwalin’s chest. It could never end and Ori would be content with it, merely lying on a bed kissing Dwalin until the end of his days. He wraps his arms around his One’s shoulders, and holds him close to feel the beat of his heart again.

“You have galaxies hidden between your bones,” Dwalin whispers against his lips when they break apart, and Ori shivers with delight. “And I will love you until the stars burn out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ûgmâl: greatest star


	3. laughter, slow burn (bofur/nori)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written for the [prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8478.html?thread=18466078#t18466078): 
> 
> _"Nori enjoys fucking Bofur, and the noises he makes when he sucks Bofur off, and the way Bofur fucks him with his hands all over Nori's body._
> 
> _It just takes him a while to figure out that he likes Bofur, not just the sex with Bofur. In fact he really really likes him. Maybe he realizes when Bofur gets hurt or sick, and Nori feels the need to take care of him even though there's no chance of sex in sight._
> 
> _Bonus points: I see Nori as someone who does hard and fast, not gentle and careful. And Bofur enjoys it."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theme for this fill ended up being "try" by p!nk, astonishingly. this got... out of hand.

It starts off rather as a joke.

“Oh, why don’t you just put that mouth to proper use and suck me off, gonna prattle on and on like that,” Nori snaps one day, while Bofur’s going on about something or other, his hands merrily working over a hunk of wood that’s slowly becoming some sort of animal. Ori positively squeaks and turns a bright red, and Dori’s furious _Nori!_ almost drowns it out. 

But Bofur’s just looking at him thoughtfully, considering, tapping the handle of his whittling knife against his bottom lip. His mouth’s open, just a tad. And despite his better judgement, Nori wonders what it would be like if Bofur _did_ take him up on his challenge. 

“I must apologize for my brother’s horrid lack of decency,” Dori’s saying, his nose pinched between his fingers like he always does when Nori’s done something to cause him stress. Bofur merely laughs, and finally breaks the eye contact between the two of them to smile at Dori.

“No offense taken,” he says cheerfully and winks at Ori as he goes back to his carving. “I get it all the time.”

Dori squawks loudly at the “sheer lack of propriety there is a _young mind present_ ” while Ori laughs behind his hands and something roils in Nori’s stomach. 

It’s because of that little comment that when Bofur corners him in the woods after everyone’s asleep and grunts, “okay,” that Nori doesn’t immediately shove him off. Instead he watches as Bofur sinks down to his knees and tugs his pants down to his knees. If Bofur _does_ get the comment all the time, then it shows because as soon as Bofur’s lips wrap around his cock, Nori’s groaning. 

He’s not one for making noise, never has been, but Bofur’s mouth could convince him otherwise. His back arches off the tree at a particular swipe of tongue, and there are suddenly vibrations that nearly send him into convulsions from the pleasure shooting up his spine.

The bastard’s _laughing_. 

“The hell’s so funny,” he snaps, and then shudders hard when Bofur slips off of him with a horridly obscene pop. There’s a line of saliva and precome that’s connecting his lips to Nori’s cock, and when it snaps Nori feels like his stomach drops down to his toes.

“You’re just very… sensitive,” Bofur explains, a lopsided grin on his face to match his hat. Nori feels a suddenly childish impulse to smack it off the top of his head. “Didn’t expect it.” 

There’s a flush growing along Nori’s cheeks.

“I’ll show you sensitive,” he says before he can stop himself, and Bofur laughs again before diving back in. Nori comes almost embarrassingly fast, but the way that Bofur’s tongue presses against the underside of his dick is _cheating_. 

But the noises that Bofur makes when Nori hauls him back up and drops to his own knees make up for a lot of it.

-

“Will you shut it?” Nori hisses, but he doesn’t slow his hips nor make any indication that he plans to. Bofur whines again, his neck arching as he tosses his head back. His tunic’s haphazardly torn open and even in the dark Nori can see where all of his bites have left purple bruises on Bofur’s neck and collarbone. 

“I, _oh_ , I can’t, not when you’re--when you’re doing that,” Bofur gasps between thrusts, his eyes shut tight and a flush traveling across his cheeks. Nori fucks into him, harder than before, bracing himself on the hard ground on either side of Bofur’s head. He buries his face into the dip of Bofur’s shoulder, finds skin that’s soft and tender and bites down again, sucks hard until Bofur trembling underneath him. 

Every thrust pushes another sound out of him, high-pitched and blissful, his skin hot where it’s pressed against Nori’s. It’s far too intimate for a rugged fuck on the cold ground, but Nori’s not going to acknowledge that. Instead he finds where one of Bofur’s braids have started to unravel and wraps the strands around his fingers, slowly, like yarn.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” Nori tries again, without conviction. “You carry on whining like that.”

“Let ‘em,” Bofur hisses, his mouth widening when a sharp jerk of Nori’s hips hit a spot that makes the muscles of his stomach jump and his eyes roll back. Nori’s heart skips a beat at the sight, and he tries to hide it by heaving into Bofur harder, dragging his lips along the slope of Bofur’s cheekbone. “ _Oohhh_ , let ‘em, let ‘em hear, let ‘em see--” 

“I don’t _want_ anyone to see,” Nori growls, a feeling of sharp jealousy panging deep in his gut. No one else should be allowed to see this; it should be for him alone, this fucking _beautiful_ dwarf beneath him, spread out and gasping for him. Nori’s never been particularly good at sharing, least of all the things he wants most. 

The way that Bofur looks at him then, even with the haze of lust thick in his eyes, says that he knows what Nori’s thinking. Nori would rather not dwell on what that means, and instead goes back to business. He grinds his hips hard until his thighs press against Bofur’s arse and Bofur’s moaning pathetically, fingers scrabbling for something to hold on to.

His breath catches in his chest when Bofur suddenly clenches around him, a wail muffled by Nori’s hand scurrying to press hard against his mouth. He comes hard and sudden, his thighs shaking like leaves as Nori works him through it, still shoving into him hard enough to leave little scrapes on the small of Bofur’s back where his shirt’s ridden up. 

It only takes maybe half a minute of that, of Bofur slowly unclenching around his cock but still whimpering with every drive home, his eyes hooded as his hands reach down to urge Nori on, before Nori’s forehead crashes down against Bofur’s chest and he’s groaning, waves of orgasm rippling through his spine.

Finally he collapses down on top of Bofur, softening inside of him and sighing happily, tiredly.

Eventually, however, the position starts to jostle him as Bofur’s chest starts heaving, and it takes him a second.

Bofur’s giggling again, and Nori glares at him from beneath his own eyelashes.

“Mahal, _what_.” 

“Aren’t you a little possessive over little ol’ me,” Bofur finally says, when he’s done laughing, and there’s a huge grin on his face as he tugs at one of the braids of Nori’s beard.

“Oh, shut up,” Nori groans, and shoves at Bofur’s face when he pecks at his cheek, still giggling. “You’re a good lay. Ain’t no reason for me to give that up.” 

But the next time, when they’re in Beorn’s halls, and Bofur kisses him _before_ sex, with a sharp clarity to his motions, Nori lets him. They fuck hard and fast, Bofur’s hands wandering all over Nori’s body as he pushes into him, and there’s a reverence to all his touching that nearly takes Nori’s breath away.

Nearly.

-

“You’re hurtin’ me.”

Bofur’s voice is a little breathless, and Nori lets go of him instantly. He’d watched the town on the lake burn to a crisp, the screaming of the dying distant on the horizon, knowing that their kin were down there. Bofur was down there. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, and tries to turn away. Bofur sounds very stiff, very uncertain about the hug, and Nori realizes that he’s still shaking a bit. 

But Bofur grabs him by the face and presses their mouths together, hard, eyes squeezed shut and his heart thumping against Nori’s chest. For a moment Nori just stands there, and then he kisses him back, grabbing him by his dirty coat and pulling him in close. They fumble with their clothing, still furiously kissing, and Bofur mumbles,

“I just meant you were squeezing me too hard.”

“Sorry,” Nori repeats, a record for him as far as apologizing goes, and he presses Bofur up against the wall and forgets the fear and the panic and buries all of it into the body lined up with his, when really what he wants to say, what they both want to say, is _I was scared._

Afterwards, when they’re a heap on the floor, propped up by the wall, Bofur voices it out loud, and Nori holds him just a little tighter.

-

Bofur’s making soft, pained sounds and Nori can’t tear his eyes away from the spot of blood at the corner of his mouth. He skids to a halt, drops down to his knees hard enough to scrape painfully at his skin but he doesn’t pay it any notice.

“N-Nori--”

“Shh.” He fumbles--when has he ever fumbled? he doesn’t fumble--and tears Bofur’s jacket open, searches through the ripped fabric of his tunic until his fingers brush split skin, slimy with blood. Bofur makes another louder noise at the touch, his head turning into the ground, and Nori hushes him, pulls the tear in his tunic wider.

The cut is deep and long and nasty and still steadily pouring blood out onto the dirt, and Nori swallows hard. He tears a wide strip of cloth off of his own tunic and presses it hard against the wound despite Bofur’s feeble attempts to push his hands away.

“Hurts,” he whispers, but it comes out like more of a gurgle with the blood in his mouth. Nori shakes his head and bats Bofur’s shaking, bloody hands away, tearing another longer strip of cloth. This he uses to bind the first wad against Bofur’s waist. Both are already darkening with sticky blood.

“I know, but we’re gonna get you to Óin, yeah? Get your stupid arse to him so he can fix you and you’re never gonna hear the end of it, ‘bout how you got yourself stuck by a damned Orc,” Nori says, mouth running before he’s thought about his words properly. He smacks Bofur’s cheek once, hard, when Bofur’s lashes flutter against his cheek and his head lolls. Bofur’s eyes are glassy, and his breath is getting shallower. 

But he manages to glance up at Nori, and stupid Bofur, beautiful irreplaceable _stupid_ Bofur smiles at him. It’s weak, and he’s starting to shiver, and his eyes roll up as he shudders in pain, but by the Maker, he _smiles_ like he’s not dying beneath Nori’s hands.

Nori feels panic, fierce and thick, bubbling up in his chest. If Bofur dies here, on this battlefield, surrounded by the corpses of kinsmen and elves and orcs alike, Nori will never see that smile again. He will never hear him laugh, or tell a tale, he’ll never whittle another animal carving for him or nudge his side with his elbow or play his flute and the sudden realization is like ice to his heart. 

He doesn’t know what he could do without Bofur. He could live, certainly, but he doesn’t think he would consider it living any longer.

“Alright,” he says out loud, and with bloody hands he stoops low and tugs Bofur’s arm over his shoulders. Bofur huffs a pained gasp into his shoulder when Nori manages to get him upright and slung over his back. He can already feel blood soaking into the back of his jacket, and the weight almost bends him double for a moment before he can steady himself. “Alright. Let’s go.” 

With shaking hands, Bofur latches onto the front of Nori’s chest, white knuckled fists grabbing handfuls of his clothes as he breathes, “okay.” 

-

Nori runs his thumb over the scar sometimes, when they’re alone. It’s raised, still pink, ridged against his skin where the stitches had pulled the wound together. Bofur usually watches him when he does this, his eyes soft. He knows what it means, even if he was unconscious for most of it. Dying, really, but neither one of them will say it. 

They never say anything, in those moments. It’s oddly quiet, for both of them, whenever Nori finds himself looking at the scar again. Days of worrying, of bleeding, of fever and delusion, of _fear_ , and at long last a slow recovery, all buried in a mark not wider than a sword blade, but it could have taken so much if Nori had been too late. 

It’s a tender thing, that touch. 

“Tired?” Bofur’s voice breaks the silence at last, and he’s looking at Nori with so much affection that it’s stifling. They’re pressed tightly together, even though they’ve got a bed big enough to hold both of them comfortably. Nori slides his hand up, rests it on Bofur’s shoulder instead.

“Yeah,” he says, and yawns, throwing a leg over Bofur’s hips. “I’m more in the mood for sleepy morning sex, anyhow.” 

In the quiet of their room, Bofur laughs, and Nori can’t help but join in. Just a little bit.


	4. give and take (bard+beorn, bard is a skinchanger)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written for the [prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25503234#t25503234): 
> 
> _Beorn notices Bard during BoFA. He sees his potential and teaches him to become a skinchanger to protect his people._
> 
> _Beorn/Bard or Bard/other okay. I would love Thorin, Thranduil, Legolas, Fili, or Bard's wife. Bard can change into a bear or some other predator._
> 
> _Bonus if Tilda curls up next to animal!Bard or bear!Beorn. Or just Bard's kids with Beorn somehow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...this was not meant to be as long as it ended up being.

Bard’s sitting on the river bank, washing blood out of his hair, when the man comes to him.

“You are the king of this land,” he says. It’s not a question. “The Dragonslayer.”

Water drips down the side of his face as Bard wrings out his wet hair, unsure of where to go from here with the conversation. True, he is the King now, he supposes, and true that he is the Dragonslayer as well, but the man just looks at him with an intense light in his eyes. It’s a little awkward, and a little unsettling. So he just stands, straightens his back and nods.

“Aye, I am.”

The stranger hums thoughtfully, maybe even a little grumpily, those intense eyes boring into him with no small amount of curiosity. Bard stares back, unsure. As the man steps closer, his height becomes more apparent, and there’s a sort of anxious pit that’s beginning to grow in Bard’s stomach. He searches for his sword, his eyes drifting down to it laying in the mud about two feet away from his boots and coat, both discarded as he had waded into the water.

“You would not reach it in time,” the stranger says dismissively, and steps closer again. He’s _huge,_ towering at least several feet over him. “Nor am I interested in fighting you.”

“Then what, if I may ask, _is_ your interest?” Bard asks carefully. He’s far more used to dealings with people either his height, a little taller or much shorter, and it feels very odd indeed to have to tilt his head up to simply speak with this man. Especially barefoot as he is, with his pants and sleeves both rolled up. He feels rather like a child.

“I watched you, in the battle.” The man moves with an elegance about him that Bard would not expect for someone of his size, but there is power in it too. This is someone who knows himself well, knows his strength and his place in the world. So Bard is fairly surprised when the sentiment is voiced aloud, about _him._ “You fight with skill, and no small amount of grace. You are an impressive fighter.”

There’s a pause.

“...thank you,” Bard finally says. “But I’m afraid that does not answer my question.”

The man is close enough that he can reach out, now, and with a shockingly gentle touch he lifts Bard’s chin with his index finger, raises his gaze until they are staring at each other. Bard doesn’t dare to move, unarmed as he is, but every vein is singing with the urge of fight or flight, _fight fight fight,_ until the man says, “do you know what you are?”

Bard stares at him, narrowing his eyes in confusion. His heart is thumping heavily against his chest as he stares up at this man. Even in his growing anxiety, something about his presence feels… soothing. He ignores it.  

“No, I do not.”

And then, as quickly as he had arrived, the man lets go of Bard’s chin and turns, muscles rippling as he walks off.

“We have much to discuss,” he says over his shoulder, and leaves Bard with the waves crashing gently against his ankles and heart still pounding against his chest.

 

“I’m a _what_?”

“A skin-changer,” the Wizard says cheerfully. “Surely you noticed the large bear romping around the battlefield, throwing Orcs to and fro. Well, that was our good friend Beorn, here, and he has informed me that he sees the same potential in you.”

Bard could use a drink, or a long sleep, or perhaps both. He sits next to Thranduil, who is watching the conversation with something of a smirk on his face. Their guest, Beorn as the Wizard called him, stands in the corner with that intense look still in his eyes, never taking his gaze off of Bard. Bard keeps glancing back to see if his stare has wavered; it never does, and it makes him vaguely uneasy.

“Skin-changers are rare,” Thranduil comments, glancing sidelong at Bard. He’s noticed the staring contest between the two, clearly, and while Bard has only been in the Elvenking’s company for a short while, he can tell it amuses him. “Certainly Beorn is the first I have encountered in a long, long time. His presence was appreciated,” he adds, and Beorn nods, but does not shift his gaze. Thranduil’s smirk broadens.

“Indeed, they are all but gone,” Gandalf agrees, nodding his head. “I had not expected to see one again.”

“I’ve only ever heard tell of them in stories,” Bard mutters finally, looking back at the Wizard. He can feel Beorn’s eyes on him, still. “Children’s tales. I did not think them real.”

“We are real,” Beorn rumbles, the first words he’s spoken since he arrived in the tent. “Once, many years ago, there were many of us, but after the Defiler found us our numbers dwindled. I had believed I was the only one who remained.” Bard’s heart jumps a little at the fierce look in Beorn’s eyes. Bard knows that loneliness. He felt it when his wife died. “I was wrong.”

“And what makes you think I am one of your own?” Bard asks, still uncertain. Beorn tilts his head, studying him for a moment before he speaks again.

“It is a gut feeling,” he explains, and pounds one fist against a hard stomach. “We know our own. Recognize them. I had not felt it in many years. You would not recognize it at all.” Bard recalls with sudden clarity how he had felt on the river bank, and listens with a growing interest and somewhat of a sense of foreboding. “We are a pack, skin-changers. We protect our own. Cherish them.”

The other two listen on, both with very different smiles on their faces. Bard considers the words for a moment, unable to look away. Beorn continues to stare at him, his arms crossed over his powerful chest. There’s so much strength to him, so much power, that Bard feels something of what Beorn had been describing. He has never met this man before today, but he would trust him with his life.

“And… if I believe you?” he finally asks. “That I am one of your own? A… skin-changer?”

“Then I would teach you,” Beorn answers. “If you want it.”

Bard thinks of his children, of his people. He thinks of how close many of them came to death, and how many of them did when the dragon attacked. So many lives lost, no matter what he had done in the end. He thinks of his wife, with her beautiful hair and her shining eyes and soft skin and gentle, gentle smile and thinks of what he could have done, how he could have protected her.

Many things have changed recently in his life, in ways he had never expected. Commoner one day, king the next. Friend to one of the most powerful leaders in all of Middle-Earth, where before he had been only a bargeman. He looks at his own hands, flexes them. They’re clean, but dirt still lingers under his nails. The blood that had stained them was rinsed away in the river.

He looks at Beorn, all enormous strength and power, and nods his head slowly.

“Then I would have you teach me,” he says, and Beorn’s mouth twitches, for just a moment, into something that looks almost like a smile.

 

 

Beginning is not easy. In truth, Bard had not expected it to be easy at all, but he had underestimated how hard it would be, in the end. Thankfully, Beorn is a patient teacher. The knowledge of skin-changing is left to him, and him alone, but perhaps he could remember how difficult it was at first. Indeed, with the way he describes it, it’s doesn’t seem to be an easy process at all, and Bard wonders how he’s ever expected to accomplish it.

He stands, bare from the waist up, covered in sweat and yet shivering at the same time. He feels foolish, half-naked in the middle of a forest and straining to find that warmth Beorn keeps describing. It is only the second day since Beorn first approached him, and Beorn hasn’t given him much instruction yet.

“You must imagine what you are,” Beorn explains, while Bard closes his eyes and breathes. “Imagine your body. Every detail. Do not let a single hair go unnoticed. You must know your body before you can change it.”

“I had assumed after thirty-five years, I knew all there was to know,” Bard replies, opening one eye. Beorn does not laugh, but again something like a smile almost quirks his lips.

“You would believe so, yes. But there is more.”

Bard sighs loudly, closing his eye again and lifting his head towards the sun. Everything, Beorn keeps saying. He must imagine everything.

Very well.

He starts at the very top of his head, imagines the hairs that have already begun to lighten with age and stress, travels down to where they brush against his bare shoulders. The slight trail of freckles over his nose and around his eyes, the wrinkles in the corners there. The sharp point of his collarbone, the dip of his stomach and navel. His arms, and the tanned skin that comes from hours out on the lake, the veins on the backs of his hands. He imagines everything, down to his toes, imagines his heart and his lungs and stomach.

“What do you feel?” Beorn’s voice breaks the silence, and the calm that Bard had unexpectedly found himself in.

“...loose,” Bard admits, opening his eyes and turning. “Uninhibited.”

“Good,” Beorn replies, and unfolds his arms. “That is good.” He walks towards him, always imposing in his sheer size, and looks towards the trees. He’s silent for so long that Bard wonders if Beorn means for Bard to say or do something, but finally Beorn looks back to him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“That is all for today,” he says gruffly, and turns away. Bard stares after him, brows knit, and then follows after gathering his clothes and stuffing his shirt back over his head.

“That’s it?” He can’t help himself. “Am I not ready to try and change yet?”

“No,” Beorn says simply, looking at him with an almost incredulous expression. They stare at each other for a moment, and then Beorn’s bushy eyebrows go up as he realizes the implications behind Bard’s words. “You did not think you would master it in a day?”

“Well, I-- no, I suppose not,” Bard replies, feeling foolish. “But… I did believe we would try more, I admit.”

“You are not ready.” Beorn is leading them back into Dale, and Bard has to take two steps for every one of his. He still feels so small next to him, and wonders if this is how dwarves and halflings feel around Men. “Not until you know your body as you should.”

“And how long will that take?”

Shockingly, Beorn chuckles. “You are eager.”

“Curious,” Bard corrects, though his ears burn. Beorn hums at that, and stops at one of the intersections of the crumbling buildings. He’s looking around, back and forth, and a couple people see him and hurry onwards, whispering amongst themselves.

Bard finally manages to catch up to him, and, realizing the issue, points right. “I live towards the center of the city, now. If you’d like to stay with us.”

Beorn looks sidelong at him. “Orcs still roam the lands near here. I was only accompanying you for your safety.”

“And I appreciate that. But I would not have you without somewhere to stay while you are so far from home. Ah, Gandalf told me you lived on the other side of Mirkwood,” he adds when Beorn raises his eyebrows at him again. “You are welcome in my home, if you feel comfortable.”

There is a long pause as Beorn considers his offer.

“My children would be delighted to meet you,” Bard tacks on, as a last detail.

Beorn’s head raises slightly, and he nods.

 

 

True to word, the children are all beside themselves once they get over their initial shyness. Tilda is, predictably, the first to approach Beorn, and she looks so tiny next to him that Bard laughs behind his hand. Beorn stares down his nose at her, and she squints at him for a moment before saying, “you’re very big. Is Da going to get bigger, too?”

Bard had not considered that, but Beorn answers the question easily.

“No. Your da will stay the same.” He sits on one of the window sills, and even with half his height reduced he towers over her. “I am big simply because I am.”

“And you turn into a... bear?” Sigrid asks from next to Bain, who’s eyeing Bard with something like suspicion, curiosity, and a hint of uncertainty. Beorn nods. He seems more comfortable with the children than he had with anyone else.

“Or perhaps I am a bear, and turn into a man.” He glances at Bard. “I never could figure out the difference.”

All three go wide-eyed and scoot closer, especially Tilda, who seems utterly fascinated just as she had been with the dwarves. She inches closer, her eyes gleaming bright with curiosity.

“Could you… could you show us? Please?”

Bard watches as Sigrid and Bain both inhale sharply and then hold those breaths with anticipation. Beorn doesn’t move, his gaze shifting between each child before, for the very first time, he smiles. And then he stands, nothing but imposing power, and says in his gruff voice,

“Well, certainly not in here.”

Tilda squeals excitedly, clapping her hands as she turns to her father. “Da, did you hear? Mister Beorn is going to show us how he changes!”

Bard smiles and ruffles her hair as the children all dart past him to follow Beorn out the door, eager to see a sort of magic they ever only heard about in stories. His curiosity getting the better of him in the end, Bard follows. In truth, he has not yet seen the process, the changing at all, and while he knows what Beorn’s bear form looks like he’d only seen it in passing while surrounded by Orcs with the intent to take his head off.

The family follows Beorn out the door and towards the woods at the edge of Dale, ignoring the whispers from the other townspeople as they go. They reach where the trees grow tall, and the children nearly bump into each other when Beorn stops abruptly, his head tilted towards the sky.

For a moment it feels as though nothing is going to happen, the four of them watching as Beorn just gazes at the tops of the trees, and just as Tilda asks in a hushed tone, “is he going to do it?” they all watch him change before their eyes.

It’s as though he’s melting, like candle wax, but instead of dripping away into nothing his skin shifts and folds over itself, everything expanding outwards. The girls gasp and Bain’s hand flashes out to find Bard’s sleeve, but Bard finds himself transfixed. He watches as fur seems to grow out of every pore, Beorn’s face growing into the point of a muzzle, his back arching until he’s practically bent double. Where Beorn had stood, a bear replaces him, panting and growling low with each breath.

Bard shifts until the children are behind him, more out of an instinct than anything else, but when Beorn turns to look at them there is no anger in his eyes. Somehow he’s even bigger, towering over the four of them with power and grace. His powerful muscles flex as he steps up to them, slowly lowering his head until he’s level with Bard. The bear’s eyes are the same fierce gray color as the man’s, and there are long scars across his muzzle.

No words need to be said for Bard to understand the look in Beorn’s eyes.

Tilda sidles along her father’s legs, curiosity getting the better of her.

“That was amazing,” she breathes, holding out her hand. For one wild second Bard’s heart leaps up into his throat, and Sigrid and Bain both reach out to pull her back, but Beorn only ducks his head down so that her fingers rest on the very top of his head. The grin on her face stretches nearly from ear to ear, and she looks up at Bard with delight.

“Da!” Her eyes are wide. “Da, is this what you’re going to do? Turn into a bear like Mister Beorn?”

Bard’s staring too, at all the fur, at the pink lines between Beorn’s eyes, and the sad, sad look there in the depths of them.

“I don’t know, darling,” he manages, as Beorn bumps Tilda’s hand, and as Sigrid and Bain inch closer, all reservations gone. Beorn allows the touches, but he doesn’t look away from Bard, and there’s that strange feeling in the pit of Bard’s stomach again. “I don’t know.”

When he reaches out, Beorn lets him bury his fingers in warm fur, too.

 

 

“Your children, they are lovely.” Beorn’s voice has somehow become even softer in the dark of the house, and the sharp silhouette of his profile in the moonlight casts a shadow against the floor. He’s returned to the windowsill, staring out across the river and where the Lonely Mountain looms on the horizon.

Bard turns one of Sigrid’s old dolls between his fingers; Tilda had grabbed it when they fled their old house in the wake of the dragon. All three of his children are asleep on the biggest bed, tangled up in each other as they dream the horrors of the last few days away.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “You seemed very comfortable with them.”

"Children are innocent," Beorn explains after a long pause. His voice is distant. "They are far easier to talk to. More trusting. Easier to trust."

Bard hums thoughtfully at that, rubbing his thumb over one of the seams of the doll’s dress. His wife had sewn the doll after Sigrid was born; she had been so delighted to have a girl, even as she’d hoisted little Bain onto her lap and had him choose what color the doll's little skirt should be. He had chosen the soft green over the bright red, his chubby fingers gripping the fabric and presenting it to his mother with a happy giggle. Bard remembers the day well.

He had stared at that little baby girl in his arms, and he had felt so much love in his heart that he never thought possible. And he had looked over at the bed, with his wife and son touching fabric like it was gold. It had felt like nothing could be more perfect. He had been wrong, of course, when Tilda was born; only then had life felt truly complete.

Bard raises his eyes, looks at the shackle on Beorn’s left wrist, and remembers the scars that had been on his face. He’s not sure he has the right to ask, nor a right to know at all, so he stays silent on that subject.

“Does it hurt?” is what he asks instead, speaking to the doll. “Changing.”

“It can,” Beorn replies. He’s still looking out the window. “Sometimes. Most times, it feels more like coming home.”

Bard chuckles humorlessly. “I don’t really have a home any longer.” He gestures around. “We call it home, but this place… it holds no memories. It was not passed down from father to son. Someone else’s memories are buried in these bricks.” He tilts his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. “It was only given to us because I was appointed the King of my people.”

“You don’t seem happy about it.”

Bard shrugs, opening his eyes again. “I have never been particularly fond of attention. I would rather stay at home, and raise my children, and avoid the public’s eye for as long as possible. Instead, I’ve been crowned their leader.” He sighs. “But I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it now.”

There’s silence again as Beorn thinks about his words, considering. Bard continues to fiddle with the doll.

“Why did you agree to me teaching you?” This time it’s Beorn who breaks the silence, and finally he turns to look Bard in the eyes. There’s something of an anger there, but more than that, a need to understand.

“...I don’t really know,” Bard admits. “But if there is anything I can do to protect my children, and my people, then I will do it.” He pauses again, and twists the doll’s yarn hair around his fingers. “And…” He hesitates, but presses on nonetheless. “No one deserves to be alone as you are.”

The longest pause of all follows his words, but when Bard chances a look at Beorn there is nothing but gentleness in his eyes.

“You make a good King, Dragonslayer,” is all Beorn says, and Bard gets the feeling that the conversation has no more to offer either of them. They sit in that silence for some time, until Bard drifts off against his own shoulder.

When he wakes up again, he’s in bed with the children, all three of them still asleep and curled up around him and a thick blanket tucked around their bodies. He can’t recall having gotten into the bed himself, and thus comes to the conclusion that he must’ve been carried there.

He smiles into Bain’s curls and sighs, letting himself doze off again.

 

 

Every day, Beorn leads Bard to the same clearing, and every day he just instructs Bard to imagine his own body. It’s dull, but no matter how detailed Bard is in describing himself, Beorn tells him that there is still more. How can you possibly change everything about your body when you don’t know it, he keeps saying.

Bard feels entirely foolish, standing in the middle of the woods in naught but a pair of trousers. He understands the principle behind it, surely. It makes sense. But he feels nothing that could lead him to believe that he really _is_ a skinchanger. He feels no change, no deviation from his everyday life but for the same warmth and fondness that Beorn had described as being around their own kind.

It’s fairly disappointing.

Three weeks pass by, uneventful but for the negotiations that continue between him, Dain, and Thranduil. The children adore Beorn more with each passing day, and the feeling seems to be mutual. Bard walks in one night, tired from a day of politics and discussions, to find an enormous sleeping bear by the fire, with three equally sleeping children curled up against his side.

Somehow Beorn becomes a staple of their life. Of all the things that Bard had expected to come out of the burning of Laketown, acquiring an enormous shapeshifting housemate had not been one of them. But here they are, every day, with Beorn large but unimposing in their kitchen or by the fire. He’s always keeping himself occupied somehow; occasionally whittling or letting Tilda compare the size of their hands. He helps Sigrid set up a little garden in one of their windows, held tight to the sill with wood and nails, and Bain is taught how to wield an ax, though it is only used as a means for gathering firewood, in the end.

But Bard still cannot change.

“It takes time for beginners,” Beorn tells him; he’s sitting on a log in the clearing, stripping a thick branch of its bark. “You have lived your entire life not knowing you could, I cannot imagine that you would pick it up in a single day.”

Bard huffs and brushes hair out of his eyes.

“Yes, but I had expected that there would be _some_ kind of change.”

Beorn huffs in a way that Bard has come to recognize as a laugh. He lowers the branch and leans forward, crossing his arms over his knees as he watches on with amusement.

“Do you feel any different?”

“No.” Bard looks sidelong at him. “Should I be doing something different?”

There’s a thoughtful hum as Beorn goes back to his branch, slicing off another thick chunk of bark. He doesn’t look up, but instead repeats the words that Bard is faintly getting tired of hearing. “Just imagine your body, as best as you can.”

Bard wants to growl in frustration, staring down at his own hands. There’s dirt still underneath his fingernails from working in Sigrid’s garden with her, and he turns them over, stares at the whorls at the tips of his fingers. He has done nothing but imagine his body for three weeks and nothing has changed. Perhaps Beorn had been wrong, he says, and looks at the dark hairs that travel up his arms.

When Beorn had changed, all of his hair had lengthened and spread over his body. He’s now seen Beorn change half a dozen times, watching both the shift from man to bear and the other way around. But that detail had stuck out, and without really thinking about it he pictures his own change, or rather what he imagines it would look like.

A sharp pain trails up his arm, from wrist to elbow and he gasps. From his log, Beorn looks up at him, going still.

Bard keeps staring at his hand, startled.  The pain is gone as suddenly as it came, and he looks over at Beorn with growing incredulity. But Beorn just continues to watch, very still, the branch forgotten in his hands.

Imagine his body, Beorn had said.

He stares at his hand, flummoxed, but then imagines his fingers lengthening, nails sharpening, deep black hair sprouting from every pore--

And next thing he knows he’s staring up at the leaves, on his back in the dirt, with Beorn standing over him. His body is tingling from toes to top, and he feels like he’s been run over by an army. He aches all over. He has to take a long, deep breath, and closes his eyes against the sunlight beaming down onto his face.

“What happened?” he groans, raising a hand to his pulsing forehead. Beorn merely reaches down and hauls him up against his chest with barely a grunt, but there’s a glimmer of something fond in his eyes.

“You nearly changed,” he rumbles, and Bard gapes.

“I-- I did?”

Beorn hitches him into a more secure grip and nods, and his mouth twitches into a smile. He makes way for the edge of the woods, and back towards Dale. “You did. And then you collapsed.”

It feels odd to be carried as a fully grown man, but Bard doesn’t think his legs would be able to hold him up anyway, so he allows it without protest. He wipes at his forehead, still twinging with pain, and it comes away damp with sweat. Yes, he definitely feels like a hundred orcs have stamped all over him.

“And how far did I get?”

Beorn huffs laughter.

“Not very far. But it was a start. You figured it out.”

Bard nods. “I had been imagining my body as it was, not how it could be.”

Beorn smiles down at him, the first true smile that Bard has seen from him since they first met. They head into Dale, and as the children spot them from the window, he carefully puts Bard down onto his own two feet again. He still needs help standing upright, and Sigrid is the first to reach them, Tilda’s hand clasped tightly in hers.

“Da!” she calls, and the fear in her voice is evident. “Da, are you alright? What happened?”

Bain catches up with them, his eyes wide. “Were there Orcs? Is Da okay?”

“I’m fine,” he reassures, even as Beorn steadies him again with one huge hand spread over his back. The children all look at him, their eyes demanding answers, and Sigrid is the one to move forward, hands searching for a wound.

“Your father changed,” Beorn explains, and all three of them look shocked, mouths dropping open a second before they explode with excitement, chattering over each other in an attempt to learn more.

“What was it?” “Oh, were you a bear like Mister Beorn, Da?” “What did it feel like?” “Did it hurt?”

“One at a time,” Bard laughs, holding out a hand. They all obediently pinch their lips shut, but it’s clear they have plenty more questions, and while Bard would love to answer them, he’s feeling a little dizzy. The exhaustion has hit him hard. “I promise, after I have had a moment to rest, I’ll answer any questions you have. But for right now, your Da is weary and in desperate need of a bed.”

Sigrid and Tilda both take his hands to lead him back to the house, but Bain hangs back a little with Beorn. Bard can hear them talking about something, but it only takes a second or two before Bain’s running after them, his cheeks tinged pink.

“What was that about?” Sigrid looks curious, but Bain just shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he mutters, but he looks incredibly pleased. Beorn follows after them, ducking his head as he always does when he crosses the threshold. As soon as the girls have Bard comfortably in a bed, they sit on the edge, looking intrigued.

“So?” Tilda asks after a moment. “What did you turn into?”

Beorn answers for him, before Bard can open his mouth.

“Nothing, yet.” They all turn to look at him, taking up the entire doorway. “His arm grew fur, black as coal, and his nails lengthened.” His eyes glint. “It looked like a claw.”

Bard sighs, letting his head sink back into the pillow. Now that he knows the source of the pain, he can feel it in his fingers. It’s like a dull ache, pulsing with every beat of his heart. “I wish I could have seen it.”

“You were a little overwhelmed,” Beorn explains, arms crossed. “But you’re getting there.”

Tilda looks at him excited, the hem of her skirt twisted between her fingers. “What do you think he is going to be?”

Beorn considers for a moment.

“I’m afraid I don’t know yet,” he finally admits. The response is disappointment from all sides, including Bard, but Beorn just lifts his head and looks down at all of them with that quirk of his lips. “But in due time, we will know. Your Da is learning.”

“How exciting,” Sigrid breathes, looking from Beorn to her father. Bard smiles and tweaks one of her braids playfully.

“Soon,” he says, “but for right now, I’d much rather sleep.”

While the children bustle about the house to do their chores, Beorn studies him for a long moment. Unsure, Bard changes the subject.

“What did Bain ask you?”

Beorn’s bushy eyebrows lift, and he crosses his arms as he considers the question for another second or two. When he finally answers, Bard can’t help but frown.

“I will tell you when you are able to change,” he says, and nods his head politely. Bard’s eyelids are growing heavy, and Beorn notices. “Rest, Bard. We will try again tomorrow.”

 

 

True to word, they try again the next day. Now that Bard has figured out the trick to it, it’s a matter of visualizing his entire body all at once, to try and push his body into changing everywhere at once.

It’s not easy.

Every time he tries he seems to forget something; on one disastrous attempt he had forgotten his bottom half entirely, too focused on torso and head, and had awakened shaking and sweaty back at home with the children looking on worriedly. Beorn wouldn’t tell him what happened, but he seemed troubled by it, and they don’t resume again until the end of the week.

“There’s got to be a trick to it,” Bard explodes one day, frustrated. “What do you do that makes it look so easy?”

“Many, many years of practice.” Beorn crosses his arms. “Patience, Bard.”

Bard huffs, and stares at his hands. All the effort being put into this endeavor seems fruitless, if every time he comes close he ends up collapsing in a fit from pain and exertion. And he finds himself rather sick of this clearing, more than anything else.

“No shortcuts, then,” he mumbles, and Beorn smiles at him.

“No shortcuts.”

Finally, one day when they’re all sitting around the table, Bain puts his fork down and asks carefully, “Da? Could we… maybe come with you while you’re practicing?” The girls look between their brother and their father, and the hope is clear in their eyes.

Bard sets his fork down as well, considering. He doesn’t see the harm in it, he supposes, but still he feels that Beorn should be consulted on the matter first. There are days where he simply disappears for a couple of hours, usually into the woods, and it does leave time for Bard to do… whatever it is expected of him as the King, he supposes.

“I’ll ask Beorn, and we’ll see what he says,” he answers, and the three of them brighten significantly. He knows why; Beorn would hardly deny them anything at this point, though he’ll never admit it.

And sure enough, when they crowd around him and ask him with wide eyes, he goes gruff in the voice and turns away.

“I don’t see the harm in it,” he grumbles, and they cheer.

Bard ends up feeling rather foolish, however, when he’s standing in the middle of the clearing, in his trousers as always, with all three of his children seated on a log and watching with rapt attention. He turns away, closing his eyes and doing as he always does: imagining himself turning into something else.

“Is he going to change,” Tilda whispers loudly, and Bard feels his neck burn. Sigrid shushes her, but Bard knows that she and Bain are just as intrigued. Feeling self-conscious, he shakes himself out a couple of times and looks towards the sky. The leaves shake gently in the breeze, and for the first time he notices a small critter jumping from one branch to the next, its little claws clutching at the bark. Its tail flicks as it rights itself, and Bard blinks.

For there was the next trick, wasn’t it? He had gotten imagining his body changing, but had he ever pictured an end result? He had always imagined becoming something, but had never considered what it was he wanted to become. And always, he had imagined the sum of his parts… rather than one body.

He turns to look at Beorn, realization dawning on his face, and Beorn smiles at him.

The next few minutes of Bard’s life are nothing but heat and a strange sensation flooding his limbs. Dimly he wonders if this is what being struck by lightning would feel like: a sharp buzz that rockets through him, down to the very tips of his fingers. But he does not stop imagining the final result, what he wants his body to become.

His mouth opens wide and for a moment he feels sheer panic when the pain doesn’t stop, but just as quickly as the thought comes, it fades. He sighs, deeply, eyes squeezed shut and forehead touching down against the hard earth. Everything’s still tingling, and he has to take a couple of deep breaths to steady himself.

The clearing is silent, save for the rustling of the wind in the leaves, and the chattering of the animals in the trees.

And then a voice, delighted and startled, breaks the silence.

“ _Da!_ ”

He opens his eyes. All three children and Beorn are staring at him. They’re wide-eyed and stunned, and Sigrid’s hands have gone to her mouth. Bard feels a moment of panic, trying to take a step forward for fear that something awful’s happened, but then he freezes.

A paw.

He has a _paw._

He jerks back, startled. Bain’s got a huge smile on his face, and before anyone can say anything Tilda’s running forward, nearly tripping on her skirts in her haste. He turns in a full circle as she reaches him, taking in the new state of his body. It’s overwhelming, more than he had imagined it would. The first thing he notices is the sleek black fur, powerful back legs and--he has a _tail._ A long tail, and curiously, he flicks it.

“Oh, Da, you’re beautiful!” Tilda takes his face in her hands, carefully, her touch gentle but excited. He lets her, trying to calm the thumping of his heart. Her fingers card through the fur on the side of his face, and they trail up to the tips of pointed ears. Bain and Sigrid are right behind her, their eyes wide.

“You’re… some kind of cat?” Bain asks, his voice hushed, and Sigrid nods.

“Tilda’s right, Da. You _are_ beautiful,” she says, sounding reverent. “Like a huge black cat.”

“Your eyes are the same color!” Tilda gushes, and then ruffles up the fur on the side of his face again. “Oh, and it’s just like your beard! Da, this is so exciting! You did it!”

Bard huffs once in her face, playfully, and she giggles as he shoves at her hands with his head. He’s very new to this strange body, and taking a step nearly sends him flailing to the ground. He has four legs now, and it’s a very unusual feeling. The children all run their fingers through his fur, and he finally settles on the ground, exhausted.

There’s a soft huff just off to the side. Bard turns his head, remembering quite suddenly that they had other company.

Beorn still has his arms crossed, but the expression on his face is so raw and open that Bard tries to stand up again. He cannot explain how he knows what it is that Beorn is feeling, looking at the only other skinchanger in all of Middle-Earth, but he thinks that the loneliness is gone from the man’s eyes at long last.

“Well done,” Beorn says, and his voice is gruff. Bard concentrates, and flicks his tail once again. The happiness that’s shining through in Beorn’s eyes grows, and he speaks again. “The same should hold true if you wish to turn back into a man. You should not stay in this form for long; not until you are better at the change.”

Bard nods his head and sighs deeply.

The process of changing back is indeed the same as it was to change first, but it feels far more painful. His limbs are shrinking, fur receding and face squashing itself awkwardly back into a man’s, and the end result leaves him shaking and gasping, on his hands and knees and forehead nearly to the ground.

He did it.

A moment later, all triumph from the act fades as the girls both shriek and hide their eyes, wild giggles bursting out of them. Even Beorn starts laughing, a low rumble like thunder, and Bain says from behind his own palm, grinning, “Da… your… your trousers ripped when you changed....”

Bard looks down his body.

“Ah. Well. That should make for an interesting walk home,” he says, and thinks that he’s never seen Beorn happier than in that moment.

 

 

Now that he's figured out the trick of it, changing becomes steadily easier. He's able to spend more and more time in his strange new form, prancing to and fro along the length of the clearing with no small amount of pride. Walking with four legs was a difficult new skill to learn, and it took a lot of staring between all four legs and trying to synchronize the movements. But eventually, that too becomes an instinct, as natural as walking on two legs. He finds that the more time he spends in this new body, the more comfortable it feels.

After a few days, Beorn begins to change with him, an unbelievable mass of fur and muscle alongside the sleek grace of Bard.

Communication is a strange thing; while neither of them talk, there’s a sort of understanding between the two of them. Bard finds himself trotting along after Beorn as they weave through trees. It’s never  for more than an hour or two, and Bard always heads back to town before the sun sets so that he can see to the children, make sure that they’re fed and bathed and happy.

But sometimes, after they’re asleep, the two of them go back out again into the clearing. Most times when they do, they’ve changed, but every once and a while they stay as Men, walking together through the darkness.

“”How did your wife die?” Beorn asks one of those nights. After Bard tucked the children in, Beorn had requested that they retreat to the woods again, and now as he speaks, the question is soft. The leaves crunch beneath their bare feet, and Bard swallows hard, his throat thick with memory.

“When Tilda was still just a baby, a terrible winter fell over Laketown,” he answers quietly. “The lake froze over, and many couldn’t fish for food, or hunt in the woods for fear of frostbite. The crops couldn’t grow, and we went without much food for many months.” He steps purposefully on a twig and feels a vague satisfaction when it snaps. “Many starved. Some froze. But mostly, they became ill. My wife was amongst them.” He reaches out and lets the leaves of a low-hanging tree brush across the tips of his fingers. “It was almost nine years ago.”

Beorn is silent for a long time, long enough that Bard feels a need to break the silence with a question of his own.

“Were you ever married?”

There’s a grunt. All Bard can see of Beorn is his silhouette, illuminated by the moonlight that shines through the leaves.

“Many, many years ago.” A pause. “She died as well, when Azog enslaved our people.”

Bard catches the ‘our’ in the sentence, but doesn’t comment on it. He supposes he belongs to two worlds now, even if one is very small, and the other almost too large behind his own measure. He thinks of his wife again, her eyes as soft as silk, hair pulled down the length of her back. The way she had held Bain’s face between her hands and cooed at him, the way she had braided the childish wisps of Sigrid’s hair when she had been just a little one.

“We have much in common,” he finally says out loud, and hesitantly, he reaches out and places his hand on Beorn’s shoulder. It’s a bit of a stretch, and he is not sure how welcome the touch is, but Beorn does not shy away from him. “I should like it if you’d stay with us, and I know the children would too.”

The wind ruffles the trees around them, and Beorn sighs heavily.

“Truth be told, I have to return to my farm,” he finally replies, and Bard feels his stomach drop. “The Brown Wizard has been keeping it for me, while I taught you. But he cannot stay there forever, nor can I stay here forever.” His eyes are distant, but he glances at Bard with something like sadness in his eyes. “I’m afraid our time to say goodbye has come, my friend.”

Bard blinks.

“...I had not considered that,” he mumbles, and looks away. He can feel his face falling with disappointment, at the realization that Beorn’s welcome, while always there, had run its course for their houseguest. Slowly he lowers his hand again, but Beorn catches his wrist in one enormous hand, his expression still soft.

“However,” he says, “a few more days would not hurt. But for now?” Beorn’s eyes grow fierce. “We run.”

Before Bard can respond properly, Beorn is changing, skin rippling as he lurches forward and takes off running. A laugh startles itself out of Bard’s chest as he runs after the bear, already feeling the now-familiar twinge from head to toe as he changes himself, hot on Beorn’s heels.

“As I expected,” Beorn tells him later, while Bard’s floating around in the river and washing the dirt off of his skin. Beorn sits on the shore, not bothering to turn away. Propriety is mostly a thing of the past, when Bard decided to save his trousers by stripping before he changes. “You’re fast. Much faster than you look.”

Bard hums into the water, feeling the pebbles against his toes.

“I rather liked running,” he admits, and dips briefly under the surface of the water to get the last of the dirt out of his hair. When he comes back up he sighs, stretching his shoulders out and wading back towards the shore. “It was exhilarating.”

“It is.” Beorn’s expression turns into something amused when Bard shakes himself free of the water, not unlike a cat might. “And your change, did you think about it, or did you just do it?”

“I just did it.” Bard starts tugging on the spare pants that he’d put out by the lakeside before they’d headed into the woods, and then the shirt. “It felt very natural.”

“Good.” Beorn looks off into the distance again. “That’s good.”

As often seems to happen between the two of them, they lapse into a comfortable silence. Across the lake, the Lonely Mountain is glowing vaguely with lanterns and fires from the dwarves there, slowly beginning to settle into their new home. Both those lights and the moon reflect on the slowly settling water, and they’re joined by the dimmed lights of Dale to their right. Bard sighs lightly, leaning back on his hands. They stay like that, in companionable silence, until the time comes that they return to the house. Still, no words are exchanged, but Bard notices that Beorn takes slightly smaller steps so that they walk together.

When they reach the house, Bard opens the door and then finds himself chuckling at the sight before him. Bain is asleep at the table, cheek squished up against his crossed arms, and it is clear he had been waiting up for them.

“Probably couldn’t sleep again,” Bard whispers, and his grin fades as he remembers the first night after the lake burned, and Bain burying his face into his father’s chest, shaking hard enough to rattle his own teeth. “He still has nightmares about Smaug, and that night.”

Beorn doesn’t answer, but there is an understanding in his eyes as he watches the lad’s chest rise and fall gently in his sleep. Bard shuffles around until he finds his old duster, carefully resting it over Bain’s shoulders. He twitches at the contact, but doesn’t wake up, and Bard gently cards his fingers through his son’s hair.

“A while ago,” Bard starts in a low voice, brushing some loose strands out of Bain’s face, “a little after we first started, I saw you and Bain talking.”

Beorn side-eyes him knowingly. “And I told you that I would let you know what was said when you could successfully change.”

“Yes.” Bard raises his eyebrow. “Would you hold up your end of the deal, or shall I wake my son?”

Another pause, and then Beorn nods his head. “A deal is a deal,” he replies. “And I am a man of my word.”

Bard waits, curious. And finally, Beorn speaks.

“Your son asked me if changing was passed down in families, from parents to children,” he admits, and his eyes slide over to gauge Bard’s reaction.

Bard freezes, lips parting in shock as he takes the words in. He had never considered the possibility, had never even stopped to give it a moment’s thought. Perhaps, in the back of his mind, he had assumed that it was an ability that people possessed, but had never thought to consider it a… a family trait. He stares up at Beorn.

“...and?” he manages. “What did you say?”

“Yes,” Beorn replies simply, a small, genuine smile forming, and Bard’s heart leaps into his throat. “It is.”

 

 

They see Beorn off later that week, the five of them in the clearing that seems almost like a second home now. Both the girls and Bain are red-eyed but dry-faced, and Beorn drops down to his knees to open his arms to them. All three run, and his arms easily surround their much smaller bodies.

“Do not cry, little ones,” he says gruffly. “We will see each other again.”

“When?” Tilda asks, her voice hitching as she looks up at him. “Will you come back to visit us?”

Beorn gives her another of those small, private smiles as he cups her neck in one enormous hand. “Perhaps, little bunny,” he answers softly. “I feel very welcome here.”

“You are always welcome here!” Bain bursts out, and Sigrid nods in agreement. “Whenever you want to visit!”

Beorn bows his head.

“And you are welcome in my halls, should you ever pass them,” he responds. The children all nod earnestly, and look to Bard. Slowly Beorn straightens out again, and for a moment the two skinchangers only stare at each other. There are a million words that can be said, a million different things that Bard _wants_ to say.

He takes a breath and holds out his hand.

“Thank you,” he says instead. “For many things.”

Beorn stares at his hand for a long moment before he finally takes it in his own. But before Bard quite knows what’s happened he’s been pulled against the larger man’s chest, arms squeezing him into a hug that he had never once expected to be a part of.

“Skinchangers do not shake hands,” Beorn tells him, and claps his back once before letting go. Bard coughs once, patting his own chest, and smiles. Beorn surveys the four of them, his head high and his eyes gentle.

“The people of Dale are in good hands,” he says in his soft voice, hoisting his bag over one shoulder. Though he’s speaking to all of them, he is looking at Bard.  “Until we meet again, my friends. Farewell.”

And with that, he is walking away, the leaves crunching beneath his feet.

“I’m going to miss him,” Sigrid says quietly, and she’s blinking hard. Bard huffs out a laugh and throws an arm over her shoulders, tucking her against his side. Bain and Tilda both follow suit, wrapping their arms around his waist and squeezing.

“Don’t you worry, love,” Bard says, holding his children close as they watch Beorn disappear into the trees. “I have a feeling there are reasons yet for him to return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for any curious, [this](https://naturalunseenhazards.files.wordpress.com/2011/02/black_panther_wallpaper.jpg) is the reference picture i used for bard's animal form. i wasn't sure if middle-earth would have a word for panther, so i left it ambiguous.

**Author's Note:**

> come and find me on [tumblr!](http://donytello.tumblr.com)


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